Chapter 11
“Here before us you can see a sample of the clay soil, often waterlogged in the winter, it bakes hard in the summer.” Rosalind pushed forward one of the six crystal goblets sitting on the table in front of her.
Today, her small group of students had gathered in the estate’s long kitchen.
She was covering soil properties in advance of autumn sowing, while at a separate table Mrs. Hollis was helping Emily with a piece of writing, and Mrs. Ashcombe was leading two girls through a difficult arithmetic problem.
Dr. Ashcombe passed near his wife, looking briefly over her shoulder before fetching a cup of tea for himself with a nod.
“And this,” Rosalind continued, nudging another crystal goblet forward, “is an example of a loamy soil. This is quite fertile, unlike the clay, and is often a mixture of silt and sand and clay. Anne, what do you think makes a loamy soil so good for crops?”
Anne dipped her fingers into the goblet, rubbing them together and testing the mixture. “Does it drain water well, with the mixture?” she asked.
“It does,” Rosalind said, beaming despite herself. Anne was an astute student. “And yet it holds onto nutrients in the soil. It is difficult to find dirt like this in the area—I had Dr. Ashcombe bring some back with him from Exmoor.”
She pushed forward another goblet. “And this is a peat soil, which doubtless none of you have seen. It is mainly in the Fens and upland moorlands, but it is excellent for agriculture.”
“It is dark,” one of the other girls said.
“It is!” Rosalind picked some up, letting it crumble through her fingers. “It is also acidic, and high in organic matter. Some farmers fetch it down to their fields if they want to improve the soil quality of their sandy soils.”
“What is organic matter?” Anne asked.
Rosalind grinned. “You asked that last week, dear. I shall give you a moment to search your own mental reserves before I answer.”
Anne frowned, then, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “Is it living things that have died in the dirt?”
“Yes, plants or animals—although mostly plants.” Rosalind pulled the crystal goblet back towards herself. “I do not know about you, but I simply do not care to imagine a decomposed rodent in my mother’s fine crystal.”
The girls descended into giggles, falling over one another as they eyed the beautiful stemware full of common English dirt. Rosalind’s heart was warm as she watched them. This kitchen, full of learning and warmth, was the most alive place she had ever seen.
In their individual worlds, these girls were shoved towards milking stools and laundry baskets, their ideas forgotten; their minds left to whither. Here, they came alive with the love of learning, and they brought their teachers to life alongside them.
When the day’s teaching was done, Rosalind sent each girl home with a loaf of bread and a small wheel of cheddar for their family dinner.
She knew that it was a stretch for the parents to let their girls attend the makeshift school, and in many ways Rosalind knew the gift of food and the promise of some apprenticeship skills was all that convinced mothers and fathers to oblige.
“Miss Thorne,” the cook said, hurrying up to her as Rosalind packed away books and slates, “I have been meaning to tell you—we took on a new woman in the garden. She has no family or connections, and has been hired as an assistant for the gardener. Her name is Ellen Miller.”
Rosalind frowned. “I prefer,” she said, nodding quietly at the books before her, “that all new staff are vetted by me first.”
The cook nodded gravely, “I know that applies to household staff, Miss Thorne, but she is technically under the groundskeeper’s jurisdiction. Shall I send her on her way?”
Rosalind considered, but shook her head. “It should not be a problem, but please discourage her from working on days that coincide with the school. I would not want any news to circulate that was… private.”
The cook nodded and scurried away.
Rosalind walked upstairs and changed out of her severe day dress into something more comfortable—a pale yellow muslin that moved about her like sunshine and a pair of thick-soled boots for walking.
She tied her hair back in a simple braid, forewent her bonnet, and set out on a walk in the bright afternoon air.
The grass seemed buoyant beneath her feet, and she realized with delight that the morning had passed without a hint of a headache. At the corner gate, she spotted Harry near the stables. He was currying a saddle, no horse in sight, apparently quite content.
She raised a hand in greeting, but walked the other way. Adrian had told her, during one of their conversations, that young boys needed space and time alone, and Rosalind was striving to give her brother more leeway.
As she moved to walk away, however, a familiar tall figure strode towards her from the paddock. She had not even seen Adrian when she first glimpsed Harry—he must have been in one of the stalls, or blocked behind the tall retaining wall.
He jogged lightly to catch up with her, then slowed to a steady pace at her side.
“Out for a walk, Miss Thorne?” he asked.
She did not answer his question, but instead gestured at the paddock. “I did not know you had a lesson today.”
“We did not,” he said quickly. “I simply brought over one of my old saddles for your brother to look at. It will take some work to refresh, but no doubt he will love it all the more for the effort he has put into its care.”
She stopped walking and turned to face him, taking in at a glance his broad shoulders and dark eyes. She remembered, vaguely, thinking him a handsome man when he was younger. Handsome, if not infernally self-centered.
Now, examining the grey at his temples, the strength of his jaw, and the way his whole being seemed to emanate confidence and ease, she could not imagine him ever having looked more fine than he did at this moment.
It was an unfortunate, though unintentional, thought—for it brought a sudden blush of embarrassment to her cheeks.
“It was kind of you to think of him,” she said, crossing her arms. “But it is probably best that you do not come on Wednesdays in the future.”
“Why?” he asked, looking around him. “Were you quite busy walking the grounds without me?”
“I was busy,” she affirmed, nodding. “But with other matters.”
Understanding dawned, and he raised an eyebrow. “So today is the day you study with the girls. I would have liked to have seen that, Miss Thorne.”
She shook her head. “I think it best if you keep your distance. In the event some gossip of our little arrangement floats to the top, you will not wish to be tarnished by reputation.” She smiled despite herself. “But it was an interesting day, I cannot tell a lie. We studied soil properties—”
“Fascinating,” he said, widening his eyes.
She laughed out loud. “Well, it was—if you must know. I filled my mother’s crystal goblets full of samples and we discussed each.
It is good information for the girls to know.
Many of them are from farming families and understand the manual labor without knowing the reason behind their successes and failures. Then we read some Wordsworth.”
“And how will Wordsworth help in farming?” he asked archly.
“Poetry helps with life, no matter the occupation,” she retorted with a smile. “As you well know, my lord.”
“What books are you reading at present?” he asked.
She sighed. “I am limited to my library and Dr. Ashcombe’s, at present.
We have worked through a few adventure tales, including a real account of a trip into the heart of Africa—then some histories.
The fiction in my father’s supply is rather lacking, I am afraid.
I have no desire to fill the girls’ minds with nonsense, but neither am I wishing them to think all pretend stories are moralizing drivel. ”
“Moralizing drivel!” Adrian tipped his head back and laughed aloud. “Miss Thorne, you speak your mind most freely.”
“Well, it is true.”
“Have you considered asking for the curate’s help? He has an extensive library at his disposal.”
“The curate is one of the people who must on no account find out about the school,” Rosalind said firmly.
“He claims to be a man in favor of education, but in practice he is not. He comes from a high church tradition that believes some people are worthy of truth, while others cannot be trusted with knowledge outside menial labor.”
She watched Adrian as his face sobered. He was not laughing anymore, instead he was clearly thinking.
“We have an old dairy at Marwood,” he said slowly. “It has not been used in ten years and is likely in need of a thorough cleaning—but it is weathertight and has a stove. If you ever need a room that is not in the estate, it is yours.”
She stared at him for a long moment, unable to answer. She still felt, sometimes, as she had when she first saw him holding Harry—as though she was in his debt, and did not yet know if he could be trusted to forgive her the trespass. She chose the cowards route out, and changed the subject.
“Have you had any more thoughts about Mrs. Vane’s return?” she asked, clearing her throat and avoiding eye contact. “Have you decided to receive her?”
“Indeed,” he said gravely. “She visited, I received her, and now we are to be married as was previously planned.”
She looked up sharply, amazed and horrified in a single moment, only to see a sparkle of mockery in his dark eyes. “You are not serious,” she said, scoldingly.
“No,” he acknowledged. “I do not move so quickly as that, nor would I wish to. Mrs. Vane has not reached out to me, and so I have not reached out to her. I think it is better that way, at present.” He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.
“But you certainly were surprised to hear of a possible marriage.”
Rosalind gathered her wits about her as best she could. “It is preposterous to think of any person stepping into betrothal so quickly—whether you or any other gentleman.”
“I am to you just like ‘any other gentleman’?” he asked, his voice teasing.
“My lord,” she said, “you speak always of how withdrawn and reclusive you are, and yet sometimes when you address me it is a manner most similar to your younger self—all charm and engagement. Perhaps you are not the recluse you pretend to be.”
His gaze withdrew ever so slightly, and his smile faded. “Perhaps not,” he said. “At least, not in your company.”
Infuriatingly, Rosalind felt her cheeks burn at his steady expression. She averted her eyes. “I was going on a walk,” she said, flustered, “but I think I am feeling rather tired after all. I am going to retire to the gardens and rest. Good afternoon, my lord.”
She turned and walked quickly away, before he could say something to hold her at his side.
She knew, even as she retreated, that it would take less than words to keep her there—if she so much as raised her eyes to Adrian’s again, she would be in danger of all sorts of silly and childish fantasies.
She was a sensible woman, and sensible women did not get caught up in daydreams.
Back at the house, the butler met her with a letter that had been delivered only a few minutes hence. It was written in a hand she had grown to know and loathe: by Edmund Crewe.
Dear Miss Thorne,
I have taken up residence at the inn in the village—the Red Lion, if you must know—and I shall keep this room for the duration of my stay in the county, or until the matter of the estate can be handily resolved.
You will be pleased to know, I am sure, that I plan to dine at Thornefield on Friday evening the next. I am family, and so you need not go to any expense on my account. Simply a good evening of food and fellowship shall be pleasure enough.
Sincerely,
Sir Edmund Crewe
She set the letter down and held a hand to her forehead.
There it was again, like a trusty friend lurking behind the estate books and in the ink of Edmund Crewe’s quill—a headache spreading from her temple into her forehead.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
There was no time to worry—preparations had to be made.